Bullseye!
by Torns
Summary: Average. Unassuming. Invisible. This is what Harry aspires to, even among witches and wizards. But that's no goal to aim for, is it? With some hard work and dedication—plus a bit of prodding—he'll climb his way up to be the person he never knew he could be. Hufflepuff Harry, from first year on up.
1. Sorting

Oh boy, here I go making another story again. Enjoy.

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 **Broadcast #0: Sorting**

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"Harry Potter?"

The girl next to him was close. Too close, Harry noticed, head snapping back. Next to him, the girl did the same, scooting back on the bench. Her hair was yellow, like the stripes on her tie.

"Ah, um… yes?"

He heard murmurs. Then he realized she wasn't the only one looking at him. The boy on his left, and another across from him, a redhead— _Red_ , he thought, mulling the word over, eyes trailing over to the long table just next to the one he sat on. Red like the banners that flourished over it, like the pair of twins making such a fuss at its head. Like the one friend he'd made in this place, separated from him by a hat. He liked red.

But these people weren't the only ones staring. Half their own table seemed to be staring at him, or at least glancing his way, keeping him at the edge of their sight. Half the hall, really, people from other tables looking at him, like he had a lit fuse stuck to his head and they were waiting for it to either fizzle out or run its course and blow up. It felt like the Leaky Cauldron all over again.

"Blimey, he's deaf after all, ain't he?"

That was the boy in front of him. Blond, bangs reaching his eyes. "I'm not…" Harry trailed off, because so far, the blondes he'd come across had all been rather unpleasant. But then again, this one wasn't like the last one he'd talked to, if the lack of green was anything to go by. He didn't know much about Hogwarts or its houses, but if Draco Malfoy had taught him anything, it was that not getting sorted into _Slytherin_ was something to be glad about in and of itself.

So then, he considered, whatever Hufflepuff is, it can't be quite as bad, can it? Biting into a mutton chop, he figured he might as well give it a try. It wasn't Gryffindor, with Ron and his brothers, but it wasn't the worst.

"What was your name again?" Harry asked, and the boy's smirk left him.

"Ernest Macmillan," he said, chest puffed out. "Son of Rowland Macmillan, I'll have ya know."

"Never heard of him," Harry said, then, seeing Ernest deflate before his eyes, "ah, no offence?"

"Don't worry, no one's heard of him," a girl next to him said. She turned to Ernest, fork stabbing into a chicken leg between them. "Having a radio show doesn't make you famous, last I heard." Noting the blank look on Harry's face at seeing her, she smiled, slicing off half the chicken and shoving it into her mouth. "Hunnuh Uhbbuht," she said, and he nodded, because he could just ask her later. When he did, he found out her name was Hannah Abbot.

The boy on his other side, one he remembered hearing the name of, a Justin Finch-something-or-other, leaned forward to look Hannah's way. "How've _you_ heard of him if no one has?" he asked, and was met with an open hand like a wall telling him to wait. Hannah took the time to swallow her food.

"My grandpa's obsessed with all that self-help rubbish," she eventually said, getting another forkful ready. "Always blasting it out in his house. We don't visit much these days."

"Still, tons of folk tune into _Archery Club_!" Ernest said, pointing his spoon at her. "I mean, if your grandad does—"

"Then it's a show for old foggies anyway."

The two kept it up, and for someone who didn't visit her grandfather much, Hanna sure knew a lot about the show he watched. Enough to argue about it, at least. Watching them, Justin tutted, breaking off a piece of bread and dipping it into his soup. "Oh well, there's nothing for it with these types, you know. Blonds, I mean. Always picking a fight."

Harry recalled Draco again. He was starting to see what the other boy meant.

"I'm Justin Finch-Fletchley," he said, holding out a hand. After a moment of deliberation, Harry shook it. "And you're Harry Potter. I guess you're pretty famous around here."

"I guess so," Harry said, getting some eyes back on him.

Ernest leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Oi, you don't gotta be modest about it! You're the Boy Who Lived! Someone like you, I'm actually surprised you didn't end up in Gryffindor."

"What'd the Sorting Hat tell you, anyway?" Hannah asked. "It said I'd fit right into Hufflepuff! Said I'm the most loyal friend you'll ever have! You should count yourself lucky, Harry."

Justin's face dulled. "You sure work fast."

"Of course," she looked at Harry, hands clasped against her chest. "Oh, my first celebrity friend! My sis'll be so jealous!"

"The hat told me I had a lot to learn, whatever that means," Ernest said.

"You seem like the type," Justin said, then, before the other boy could protest, "I was told I'd have to work my butt off. Can't say I'm looking forward to it."

The three looked to Harry, ready to hear his side of the story, but he averted their gaze. He turned to the redhead next to Ernest, who'd been silently eating her own dinner, not sparing the rest so much as a glance. It was as if she was in a completely separate room. "What about you, uh… girl." Well that had sounded a lot ruder than he'd wanted it to.

The girl slowly turned to him, raising an eyebrow, as if someone had knocked on her door and she was considering just ignoring it. Then, she sighed. "Susan," she said. Then, she looked up at him, or more accurately, at his scar. His hand shot up to cover it out of reflex. Susan rolled her eyes. "My aunt was in Hufflepuff, so I asked it to put me here too."

"That's not how the Sorting Hat works," Ernest said, then chuckled to himself. He looked around at the others, asking soundlessly if they could believe it.

Hannah shook her head, and Justin shrugged, saying "I wouldn't know," but Harry did, and so he knew Susan wasn't lying.

"I told it, 'Not Slytherin,'" Harry said, almost whispering. "It put me here instead. I don't know why."

"Huh," Ernest stuck a finger in his ear, digging. "Well, don't mind me, I guess. Not Slytherin? I can see why. They don't seem the most friendly type, do they?"

Hannah raised her chin. "My uncle was a Slytherin. He always brings me a chocolate frog when he visits on weekends. I love my uncle."

"Well, maybe it's all part of his evil plan," Ernest said, rubbing his hands together. "You know, like this, plotting in the dark."

"What could he possibly have to plan by giving candy away?" Justin asked, chin resting on his hand, eating a tart with the other.

"She seems like the minion type, if you catch my drift."

Said girl crossed her arms, frowning. "Just my luck, sitting with such a jerk. Why don't you go bug someone else?"

The two began bickering again, and Harry turned to Susan, but she looked to be ignoring them all again. He didn't feel comfortable bugging her if she didn't want to talk, so he turned back to his food.

"So, why Hufflepuff?" Justin asked, getting Harry's attention with a bump on the arm. "I mean, if not Slytherin, there are still three others to pick from. Did the hat tell you why?"

"No," Harry lied, and it came fast, before he could even think about it.

Justin set him with a flat look. "You were on that chair for a while, you know. Longer than the rest of us by half." When Harry didn't say anything, he ate the last bit of tart, patting his stomach. "Hey, fair enough. I'm sure it's worth keeping to yourself." He reached for another pastry, but sighed, taking a swig of his pumpkin juice instead. " _You might belong in Hufflepuff, where they are just and loyal, those patient Hufflepuffs are true and unafraid of toil_. That's what the song said, so I'm sure it's got something to do with all that."

"I'm surprised you can remember it," Harry said.

The other boy waved it off. "It's just a four-line stanza, nothing to make a fuss about," he said. Leaning forward, conspiratorially, he went on, "But hey, I can tell you're new to all this too, right? Muggleborn, they call me, and the rest of them muggles. I'm doing fairly well now, but I have to say, at first I thought I was going insane. Have you seen how crazy some of this magic stuff is?"

Harry thought back to the things he'd been privy to past few weeks. The floating candles right over their heads, the ghosts, the wand shop… Well, all of Diagon Alley in itself. A secret magic train station inside a brick column, not to mention the animate candy. Hagrid the giant, with whom he shared a smile when their eyes met across the hall…

"My uncle didn't want me to have the letter they sent," Harry said, careful not to mention too much, "so they sent another one. And then another one. And another one. They started falling in piles from the chimney."

That got a smile out of Justin. "Well, I can't say I'm not happy about it, and they even gave us wands," he said, taking his out. "Cherry and grudgkin spine, or so I was told. Yours?"

"Holly and phoenix feather," Harry said, though he didn't show his.

Justin nodded, pocketing his wand. "Phoenix, huh? I've talked to two other people here with grudgkin spine as their core, but you're the first phoenix I've met. Maybe there's something to all this Boy Who Lived nonsense after all?"

Harry joined along with Justin's snickers, though in his head, he recalled Ollivander the wandmaker. The old man's voice grating in his ears, speaking of him doing great things one day. And the hat, another in what was turning out to be a long list of expectants:

 _Difficult, very difficult… Plenty of courage, I see, and not a bad mind either... There's talent, oh yes, and… no? No thirst, no desire? How modest. Where to put you? Not Slytherin, you say? Hmph, I can see why. Wasted, that's what you'll be, in Slytherin and the rest. Maybe I'll do you a favor… For your sake, it'll have to be… Hufflepuff!_

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 **Unlike my other stories, I have no real plan for this. I'll try to keep it in chronological order, but I feel like there'll be a lot of jumping around. All I know for sure is that Hufflepuff doesn't get enough love.**

 **I guess you could look at this story as what it would actually take for Harry to become the confident badass we see so often here.**

 **Follow, favorite, and review.**


	2. Friend

**Broadcast #1: Friend**

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 _My parents put me in classes for it when I was young, at my request. They bought me the bow and a whole quiver of arrows, then paid two galleons a week on classes. The trainer was alright. A muggle, you know, but he was nice enough, and he did try teaching me the basics. He advised my parents to get me a target at home, something to put out in the backyard so I would have space to practice._

 _But I didn't practice. I only ever touched my bow once a week, in classes. I'm sure my trainer knew, but he didn't say anything. He was happy enough to be getting paid. And hey, it wasn't his job to be on my case. So this went on for a while, me only ever practicing in classes, not caring much for it, never getting any better, until one day my dad sat me down in the lounge and asked me if I even really wanted to be doing archery. It was okay if I didn't, but he'd rather not be wasting all that money if I wasn't serious. I told him I wasn't, and just like that, I stopped taking classes._

 _Years later, I picked up the bow again. I took my old quiver and started shooting out in the backyard. It wasn't for any particular reason, I just felt like it. And I got hooked ever since._

 _I guess the lesson is, you have to want to do it. It can't be forced on ya. And it can't feel like a job. If you can do it every day and it doesn't feel like a job, then you found it. That's what you're made for._

—Rowland Macmillan, in _Archery Club_ B. 12

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Harry pointed his wand at a sheet of parchment. He was supposed to be using it to write a paper—a hundred lines due by the next week—but he'd gotten caught up in something else entirely.

 _"Wingardium Leviosa,"_ he said, and the sheet of parchment rose off the table it sat on and into the air. It floated there, and Harry looked at it with the same awed light he'd had ever since that morning when he'd taken his first class in magic. Professor Flitwick had given them the whole hour to play around with the spell, letting them cast the levitation charm as much as they wanted, all along speaking at length about its history.

Who created it, when, how it had entered the wizarding mainstream… Flitwick had told them all this, but Harry hadn't paid any attention to it. He'd been too focused on the white feather he'd been given to practice with. Just a swish and flick, a couple of words, and viola. Harry had used magic. He could hardly believe it even as he stared at the levitating feather, the thing looking as if it were drifting in the air on its own, except it didn't come down until he wanted it to. Even now, Harry couldn't really believe.

Someone thumped him on the shoulder. Harry turned, wand coming down and the feather with it. Justin was standing behind him in pajamas, the dim light of the fireplace at the other end of the room lighting his sardonic face.

"Oi, Harry. Still at it?"

Harry blushed a bit. He'd taken it upon himself to get his homework out of the way the moment he'd come back to the Hufflepuff commons. His new friends—a definition he'd only given to them hesitantly and for lack of a better term—had looked at him rather questioningly. Ernie and Justin had shrugged and left for the dormitories, still needing to unpack. Hannah had stayed back with him, and they'd talked awhile, but eventually she'd needed to unpack as well. Harry was the only one who owned so little that unpacking wasn't anything to worry about. They'd surely been curious about that.

Harry also knew that doing homework on the first day of classes might've been considered strange, so that could explain their looks just as well. But Hogwarts wasn't like any other school he'd ever been in. It wasn't long math equations or English vocabulary he'd be learning here. And Dudley wasn't there to feel jealous of him, or to feel challenged by any example of superior work ethic. Why _wouldn't_ he want to do his homework? The transfiguration paper he had to write was about turning a match into a needle, for goodness sake. If _that_ wasn't interesting, Harry would have to give up on ever being interested by anything.

But the moment he'd sat down on one of the many comfortable couches in the Hufflepuff commons and placed his parchment on the table in front of him, Harry had started doing charmswork instead. There had been no real reason for it. If anything, he'd just wanted to make sure that he could still do it after a whole day of other kinds of magic. And he could. So he'd kept going, time passing along beneath his notice, until it was bedtime.

"Yeah, I suppose I'm still at it," Harry said, setting the parchment down.

Justin looked at it, leaning forward against the couch's back. "So much for getting a head start," he said.

"We still have a whole week," Harry said.

"Save it for tomorrow, eh? Classic."

Harry threw him a look over his shoulder. "And you? Done packing?"

Justin smiled. "Saved it for tomorrow."

They both laughed, then quieted down when some upperclassmen looked at them from across the room. It wasn't that they felt cowed, but it was getting late, so silence was probably preferred. They'd certainly been told as much by the prefect during their tour the night before.

"Come on," Justin said, patting his shoulder and starting for the dormitories. "Your hard work is inspiring, really, but there's no point staying up all night on it. Us first years have to enjoy our free time."

Harry picked up his things—the parchment and a couple of textbooks—and followed Justin to the stairs. "Sleep isn't free time," he said.

"That's where you're wrong, oh chosen one. Sleep is the best free time there is."

Harry frowned, following the other boy down the wooden steps and into their dorm. When Justin opened the door, Harry saw that the other three they shared their room with were already asleep, their curtains closed. It was dark, the enchanted window gave them just enough light to tiptoe their way to their beds.

Harry changed into his own pajamas and slipped under the covers. He heard Justin do the same in his own bed, and the two lay in a silence broken only by Ernie's soft snoring.

Justin had been calling him 'chosen one' since they first met during the entrance ceremony. Harry hadn't appreciated it at first, since the idea of being suddenly famous was still uncomfortable to him. Ever since the Leaky Cauldron, all through his train-ride with Ron, through the sorting, through his classes, it felt to Harry like he'd been cast as a character in a show he'd only just found out about, one which everyone else had happily enjoyed for years. Like someone straight out of his aunt Petunia's soap operas, or even Dudley's Saturday morning cartoons. Like he was somehow special.

But Harry didn't feel special. He'd been living what seemed to him a relatively normal life, if not a little tragic. The Dursleys were an unpleasant bunch, and living with them wasn't his idea of the good life, but Harry wasn't one to complain. All in all, he'd gone to school just like anyone else, lived in a normal neighborhood, and even when he got bullied by Dudley's gang of punks, he'd never felt like it was anything out of the ordinary. Many other people got bullied.

And sure, he'd had his moments. Bits of accidental magic, as Hagrid had called it, like teleporting up to the school's roof, or trapping Dudley in the snake pit. He'd been unable to explain it until now, but no one had ever made a fuss about it either. No investigations. No top-secret government scientists wanting to get a look at his insides. Now he knew that the wizarding world was kept secret on purpose, but then? He'd figured it just wasn't that big of a deal, even if the Dursleys got angry over it every now and then.

So he didn't feel like a chosen one. It just didn't make sense to him. Harry felt like a normal enough kid, and he didn't particularly want to be anything other than that either. Getting constantly reminded about his fame—not to mention the origin of that fame, in relation to his parents' deaths—should've rubbed him the wrong way. But Justin was a muggleborn, as unfamiliar to all that wizarding strangeness as Harry was, so he was only left confused whenever it was brought up by the other boy.

"Why do you keep calling me chosen one?" Harry said, softly.

Justin surprised him by still being awake. "You shouldn't keep people up," he said, a voice in the darkness.

"You were up anyway."

"Yeah, but maybe I wasn't. What then?"

"You sleep next to Ernie. If that doesn't wake you up, there's no way I will."

Just then, Ernie made an especially throaty rasp in his sleep. The two boys lay quietly, letting the moment pass, then burst out laughing. They both muffled themselves with their hands, the risk of waking someone up only making them laugh all the louder.

Eventually, Justin's giggling dried up enough for him to speak. "It's a joke," he whispered.

"Huh?"

"The chosen one thing. I just think it's funny."

"Why's that?"

"It's just so… random, don't you think? I can't even imagine. I mean, one day you get a letter. It says it's from some place called _Hogwarts_ , of all stupid things." Justin let out another muffled bark of laughter. "And then, some giant knocks on your door and tells you, all serious, that you're a wizard. A bloody _wizard_. And then, after all that, you find out that you're not _just_ a wizard. You're also the one who, for no apparent reason, happened to defeat the greatest evil known to these people you just found out about. You're the _chosen one_. Where's the sense in any of that?"

Harry felt himself smiling, without even meaning to. "I guess it sounds a bit ridiculous when you put it like that," he said.

"Of course it sounds ridiculous! It _is_ ridiculous!" Justin's voice took on a tone of pretend reverence, his words stretching in song like a priest in mass. "Ooooh chosen oneee. Saaaave us chosen oneee. But first you muuuust graduate from schoool."

That did it. Harry laughed again, and Justin joined him. They were unable to cover their outburst in time, but neither minded. It was then that Harry decided. Justin would be his friend after all, and it wasn't for lack of a better term.

Then, Ernie's snoring stopped. "Would'ya ladies pipe down?" they heard him say, his words slurring in half-sleep. "This isn't a slumber party. Some of us're tryin' to get some sleep here!"

Harry and Justin quieted. A moment later, they heard Ernie's breathing even out again, and in another moment, he was back to snoring. They sniggered, heard each other's laughter, but didn't say anything more, not even a good night. But they were both smiling, and sleep came to both soon after.

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	3. Vision

**Broadcast #2: Vision**

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 _It's okay to be bad at first. You think I got a bullseye right off the bat? I wish. No, at first, I was terrible. Could barely pull back on the bowstring. It took me, not kidding ya here, three months to hit the target twice in a row. It took me three years to hit two bullseyes in a row, and that was mostly luck._

 _Some people are better at it than others, but no one starts out great. If you think you're a hotshot at first, I'd bet it's just because you're not good enough yet to even know how bad you really are. You're so bad that you can't even imagine how good people can be at it. Things take effort and time. You just gotta be tough enough to wade through the mud you start out in._

 _I mean, look at what I'm doing here. I have no idea what I'm doing on the radio. My voice still acts up on me every once in a while. I can barely organize the schedule for it. And man, I'm terrible at getting guests. It's a miracle anyone's even listening. But you only get better by doing, right? So here I am doing it._

—Rowland Macmillan, _Archery Club_ EP. 4

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Professor Snape had been giving him the evil eye from the moment class begun. Harry could tell; he'd gotten the same look from his aunt and uncle for years, so he had enough experience. It was the look of someone who didn't like you and never would, the same look most people had for rats and other vermin infringing on their cozy homes. There wasn't any logic to it, Harry knew, only a feeling of deep, dooming distaste.

Just as he knew the look, Harry also knew its appropriate response. He simply didn't do or say anything that could raise even the smallest bit of attention. The boy only sat still, listening to the instructions, following the steps on his textbook, and preparing his potion ingredients. Unfortunately, while this did help him escape his professor's ire, it didn't do much to help his unease with it. And it especially didn't help that he'd ended up sitting next to someone else who made him just as uneasy.

Susan Bones. He hadn't spoken to the girl since the entrance ceremony, and even then they'd only exchanged a few brief and pointed words. It wasn't that he didn't like her—he barely knew her—but she certainly didn't seem to like him. Or to be fair, she didn't seem to like _anyone_ very much. She had a very no-nonsense air about her, very serious, unlike any kid he'd ever met. And so Harry, unlearned as he was in the art of making friends or even acquaintances, was intimidated into silence.

At least it was a silence matched by the rest of the class. Harry had taken a special place in Snape's hate list, but the man was rather dark and moody to begin with. A malcontent aura oozed out of him, stinking up the very air around him, so that any glance from him would cause a lowered head or downcast glance. The room itself was oppressively dark too, down in the bowels of the school dungeons, bricked stone walls slick with strange humidity. So far, it was Harry's least favorite class ever, including the ones in normal school.

The work was somewhat gross, his fingers already growing sticky from the mashing and slicing of several bulbous, brown, potato-like things. Harry wasn't sure that they were even vegetables. Maybe they weren't even edible. He would've made a joke about that, but Justin was two rows ahead of him, sitting next to Ernie. Those lucky two had paired up, and although there wasn't a chance to have any kind of fun in Snape's class, they could at least survive it together.

Even Hannah had paired up with someone she seemed to like, Bradley whatchamacallit. Harry forgot his family name, but he was a nice enough Ravenclaw chap from what the boy had seen. Those two were working together on their own potion, whispering to each other, pointing at their textbooks.

Hannah looked up and saw Harry looking at her. She raised one of her potato things to show him how she'd cut it. A pained face had been carved into its smooth surface, cartoonish, but clearly one that was crying out. Hannah held the ingredient over her cauldron, the liquid inside bubbling, and slowly dipped it in. She shook it as she did, mimicking its thrashing as it fell into what Harry imagined to be boiling lava.

He almost laughed. Almost. At the last second, Harry coughed instead, but it was too late. When he turned around, Snape was already scowling at him. Behind the scowl, Harry saw a glint of pleasure, as if the professor had been waiting all along for any excuse to cast his disparaging eyes on his dreaded student.

"Mr. Potter," Snape drawled, voice slick with contempt, "don't tell me you're _allergic_ to balbazaar nuggets. A skinny little brat like you, I wouldn't be surprised."

"No, professor," Harry said.

"Then I would advise you to carry on with your own brew. This is an easy enough potion to create without looking around for answers like some sort of confunded groundhog," Snapes eyes' finally left him, and Harry could already feel his breathing ease, as if he had surfaced from a deep dive. "Five points from Hufflepuff for silent rabblerousing."

So he _had_ seen. Harry ducked his head, grabbing the balbazaar pieces he'd cut up with his knife and sliding them into his bubbling cauldron. The heat that rose up his neck to cover his face was so distracting that he didn't notice, or didn't realize the mistake in, the overabundance of pieces he'd added to his potion. Almost instantly, his bubbling cauldron began frothing explosively, a yellowish foam quickly filling it up to the brim and threatening to overflow out onto the table.

As shocked as he was by this, Harry's reflexes were something to be praised, so his solution to this newfound crisis was as immediate as it was short-sighted. He grabbed a lid from the table and slammed it down onto the cauldron. When the dark and rusted lid began shaking, some foam seeping through the crack, Harry pressed his arms atop it and leaned hard.

Snape, hearing all the clattering metal, returned his attention to Harry. His brow raised a modicum of a centimeter, as surprised as he would allow himself to appear in front of his students. "Already onto the final step, Potter? Didn't make you out to be a fast one, for rather obvious reasons."

The insult was easy for Harry to ignore, seeing as he was currently struggling to keep the lid closed without looking like it. He gave the professor his best approximation of a smile, and it came out just shaky enough to give the impression of simple nerves rather than bodily strain. "Just following the steps," he said, voice breaking a bit, "easy enough, right?"

Snape stared long and hard, eyes borring into Harry's before he blinked and cast them around the rest of the room again. "Hmph. We'll see what pathetic rainwater you came up with at the end of class."

Harry almost sighed in relief, except the lid began shaking again when he relaxed his pressing to do so. He leaned forward again, beginning to sweat, and he had to force himself not to turn his head all around like he had moments before, else he might draw Snape's ire once more. Instead, he just looked to his left, completely at his wit's end, if only to see whether or not Susan had seen.

She had. In fact, Harry had caught Susan's attention so thoroughly that she had stopped brewing her own potion completely. Instead, she looked back at him with the same stony expression he'd seen on her since he'd known her. Her icy eyes trailed up to his face, then down to his trembling cauldron, then down to his shaking knees as he tiptoed in the effort to push down with more force.

"Pfft."

Her face broke into a sly, almost malicious smirk. As soon as it did, Harry felt a strange mixture of validation and horror. Validation because he was now certain, even without any discernable proof, that his discomfort with Susan had been justified after all. Horror because she'd chosen the most unfortunate moment to justify that discomfort.

As if to prove his point, Susan raised her hand.

"Yes, Ms. Bones?" Snape said, sounding quite displeased being interrupted from his in-class brooding.

"Professor, I'm having some trouble with my potion. I was wondering if I could ask Harry to show me his. To compare, of course."

Snape's frown deepened at this. "Your textbook should have a picture, or are you blind as well as incompetent?"

If the professor's remark bothered her, Susan didn't show it. Her sly little grin had faded, but Harry could still see it playing on her lips, hidden in the upturned corners. "I just think that seeing the hue in person would be better. My textbook is a hand-me-down, you see, so the pictures are a bit faded."

Snape sighed, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "If you insist. Potter, if you please, I'm sure Ms. Bones isn't the only one who would be thrilled at seeing your _masterpiece_."

That last word had been said with such thickly dripping sarcasm that no one in the room could confuse it for real praise. Even so, Harry's eyes were only for Susan, disbelieving, no longer seeing her as the classmate she was, but as the stereotypical witch whose image he had forced himself to cast out of his mind upon his entrance into Hogwarts. He'd seen real witches after all, and they were nothing like the pointy-nosed, wart-filled, evil-eyed, hunched and scheming villains he'd seen so often in muggle culture. But here, in that moment, Susan seemed to contort into that very figure before his eyes, not in appearance, but in soul, and Harry wasn't sure whether to scream in despair at his unfortunate situation or in revulsion at his close extremity to the cause of it. But, Harry had learned nothing in his short eleven years if not acceptance of unfair situations. So, with a long breath, he prepared to ease his force on the cauldron lid.

Then, just as his arms were set to slacken, he had an idea. The same smile he had seen on Susan's face now came to his, and their roles were, in that brief instant, suddenly reversed. It was her turn to stare with blank confusion as Harry, with the first touch of malice he'd felt since his escape from the Dursleys, said, "No problem, professor. Here _Susan_ , why don't you take a good long look."

Harry opened the lid. To be accurate, he opened it on one side, so that all the foam and bile that had been waiting to explode out to freedom did so in a rushing spray, all of it directly at Susan's face.

She spluttered at first, then brought her hands up to try and block out some of the potion, but by then it was too late. A wave of yellow-brown liquid washed over her as if from a showerhead, and in seconds she was soaked. Her red hair, lobbed up in mounds of sticky fluid, clamped down against her face and cloak, and the cloak clamped down onto the skin underneath. By the time Harry's potion spray ran dry, Susan Bones looked very much like a wet cat shivering in the cold.

The potion soon began showing its effects. Susan's skin—what little of it there was uncovered by the potion's yellowy stain—turned a sickly green. Then, a wart popped onto her face. It was followed by many others.

Harry, who had just seconds before imagined this very transformation, began laughing hysterically. He was joined by first a ripple of lowered giggles, then another one, louder this time, and finally a full-blown chorus. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws both laughed, fingers pointing, eyes in tears, hands slamming desks. Justin and Ernie were holding each other up to stop themselves from bending over in their cackling. Hannah was covering her mouth, but it wasn't helping anything, since her eyes were closed shut from the enormous, full-toothed smile she hid.

As for Susan, she took this all in with as much class as could be expected. Her cheeks colored red, even through their now-green tinge, and her eyes remained closed to it all, as if not looking at her situation might make it disappear. The lack of reaction actually caused Harry to begin feeling a bit sorry for her, and he started thinking that maybe he's gone too far. After all, it was still the first week of school. Harry knew from first-hand experience that one's reputation in school was created soon and proved difficult to cast off. Now Susan might be known as the green girl for the rest of her seven years in Hogwarts.

The regret left him when Susan calmly and deliberately picked up her own cauldron and splashed all its contents on him, soaking him just as well as he had soaked her. This was followed by another round of laughter. Justin and Ernie were now on the floor. Hannah had given up on trying to hide her smile, and was now bent over the table, shaking with the force of her chortling. It was, for the first time in Professor Snape's entire teaching career, complete and utter chaos in his class.

* * *

Harry and Susan left Snape's office, now clean and dry, each with their own personal detention slip in hand. It would be a shared detention, twice a week after classes for three whole months. They would be stocking potion ingredients for the first few, helping Snape manage his intimidatingly expansive cabinets, and then he'd figure something else out for them to do after.

As it was, Susan was furious. She stomped down the hall towards the Hufflepuff common room, pretending not to notice Harry walking alongside her. Unlike her, hands balled up at her sides and head pointed straight up in hidden rage as she was, Harry kept a leisurely pace, his face set in contemplation.

They went down the floating grand staircase, then back up when it changed directions on them mid-climb. They went past classrooms, most of them empty and a few home to one or two students lingering within them after-hours. Some of these students were couples looking for privacy, both first-years noticed, but this went unmentioned. In effect, they waked across the whole of the castle, from the dungeons up to the fifth floor and back down again, both too new to this strange and labyrinthine castle to know their way, and they did it in complete silence.

It was Harry who broke that silence, once they'd walked by the same stone gargoyle on a wall for the third time. It winked at them as they did, as if amused at their failing efforts.

"You're lost, right?" Harry said.

Susan didn't respond. She just kept walking, as if she hadn't heard him.

"Hey, Susan."

"Yes, I'm lost!" she said, whirling around on him. Harry stumbled back, the full force of her fury triggering his flight instincts. "But so what? You are too!"

"I am," Harry said, voice low. "I'm just, you know, making sure."

"Making sure of what?"

"That we're both on the same page here."

Susan glared at him. Her warts had disappeared, but her skin was still the faintest bit green, pale like she'd come down with something. "I'll have you know, _Potter_ , we are most definitely not on the same page!"

"But we're both lost…"

She kept her glare on him, then it dropped, and Susan sighed. She walked over to the wall and sat against it, right under the stone gargoyle looking down on both of them. Susan drew her knees up against her. "We're lost alright. And I've got a detention to boot. Bloody hell, Auntie's not gonna like this. First week of classes…"

Harry gulped, hesitating, then leaned against the same wall she sat against. He didn't sit, careful to not get to close to her. She was still mad, he could tell. But it was a dulled anger now, stored on the fridge and saved for later. Right then, Susan just wanted to be back on her bed and curled up under the covers. If he were honest, Harry felt the same.

"You don't like me much, do you?" he said

Susan sent him a narrowed glance. "You got that right."

"No, I mean, even before today." Harry looked across the hall at the paintings that hung on the opposite wall. He could see them mingling with each other in a sort of secret language, their mouths opening and closing but no sound coming out. He figured that they could hear each other, if paintings did such things as hear, but he certainly couldn't. It was as if they were speaking an entirely alien language, one which he could neither understand nor hope to learn. "And Professor Snape too. He doesn't seem to like anybody much, but I could tell he had something against me for some reason."

"Oh, boo-hoo," Susan said, staring at the paintings also. She saw them speak to each other, but didn't particularly care to listen, or even to imagine listening. They were just paintings, after all. "Poor little baby Potter, so sad. No one likes him. All of wizarding Britain isn't wanting to be his friend, poor little famous Potter."

"I suppose it does sound kind of pathetic."

She stared up at him, the first time she'd looked straight at him since they'd been brought into Snape's office after class. They'd both received the lecture silently, staring straight ahead at the professor, and she'd kept up the habit, too mad or too proud to stop. But she did stop and look at him here, because it finally occurred to her that he wasn't mad or proud like she was.

"I tried getting you in trouble, you know."

"I know," Harry said. He looked down at her, and their eyes met. "You didn't exactly try to hide it."

His eyes were green, Susan noticed. Bright green. "You're not mad about that?" she said.

"Not really. More surprised. I didn't think you'd do something like that."

"Something like what?"

"Something mean."

Susan huffed, and turned away. "Well, maybe next time you'll pay attention when brewing dangerous potions. And I didn't figure you to be that type either."

"What type?"

"The type to get revenge. Or is my skin color an accident?"

Harry chuckled. "You got me," he said. "I just did it without really thinking. For what it's worth, I'm sorry about that."

"Well, it's sure not worth much," Susan said, but her head dropped at that, hiding behind her knees. Harry thought he'd seen something like a smile, and he grinned. She saw it, eyes narrowing again. "I'm still mad at you."

"Sure."

"No, really. I'm telling on you to my aunt."

"Okay."

A beat of silence passed, and now Harry could feel himself relax. He'd been tensing without even meaning to, but now the air he breathed felt a little cleared, like someone had bust open a window and the stale indoor air had circulated out, replaced by a cool outdoor breeze.

There had been something about Susan he'd seen when he first met her, something about the way she stared. It had scared Harry off at first, but now he saw that he'd been scared only because he'd confused the seriousness that came as a result of that indiscernible something in her eyes for coldness.

Looking down at her, Harry could see that stare of hers right then. He'd though it cold seriousness, and while he saw that it was a certain kind of seriousness, he also saw that it wasn't cold. It was a sharp look, a seriousness which came not from the absence of fire but rather from its control. Susan looked to Harry like she was seeing through the wall across from them, through the paintings, out to something beyond even the hills and valleys that rolled outside the castle grounds, out past the far shore.

The distance of that stare was too much for Harry. He could follow her line of sight, but his vision wasn't good enough to see whatever it was she saw. Harry stared at the wall again, eyes roaming the moving paintings, trying to see past it, really trying with more intensity than even he expected. But he couldn't do it. His eyes couldn't pierce through the walls.

It had been that piercing which he so vividly remembered her for during the entrance ceremony. She'd looked up at his scar, a brief glance he'd grown used to ever since finding out about his fame, but unlike the others she'd looked through the scar, and to him it had felt as if she'd found whatever she saw past it wanting. So Harry had covered it, also a first, brought his hands up and covered the scar completely.

Compared to that stare, what was his? What must his own stare look like to her?

Eventually, a fourth-year puff found them. It was pure luck; the fourth-year had also been meeting with a teacher and had just happened to walk by that hallway. Harry and Susan followed him down to the Hufflepuff commons, and after thanking him, the two first-years had been left with the awkward task of saying goodnight.

Well, it had been awkward for Harry. Susan didn't make much of it.

"Remind me to never get you as a guide," she said, already walking away. "Don't let the bedbugs bite and all that, Potter."

And just like that, Harry was left alone on the stairway down to the first-year dorms. Walking down, he heard himself say, "you wouldn't make much of one either," but even as he said it, Harry knew he would follow her if she asked. He didn't know where, didn't need to know, but he would follow her, if only to one day see what she was seeing, so far away.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **This is probably going to be more of a slice-of-life kind of thing. I've never really done that before, but I'm kinda digging it so far. Leaves me a lot of room to screw around.**

 **If you're more about straight narratives, I have other stories you might be curious about. A Percy Jackson one called _Percivelly_ , and a Naruto one called _Plan B_. Both of those take far more extensive liberties with their respective canon than this one does. That's me saying that knowing that I'll soon throw this canon out the window and into a crocodile-filled moat where it can die a horrible death, so yeah, watch out for that.**

 **Follow favorite, and review.**


	4. Curiosity, Part 1

**Broadcast #3: Curiosity, Part 1**

* * *

 _Fear. Let me tell you a story about fear._

 _King Arthur wanted to find the holy grail. Who knows why—something about a fishing bum or something. But he wanted to find it, because it was the bloody holy grail. It could probably make you immortal or something, I don't know. Make you rich. Give you infinite wisdom, all that magic lamp nonsense._

 _Anyway, King Arthur wanted to find it, but didn't know where to look. So he sent out his knights—the round table chaps, you know—and told them that they each had to go into the forests around Camelot to look. But here's the kicker: each knight would have to go into the forest at whatever point looked darkest to him. The place that looks darkest, that's where they would find their treasure._

 _And that's the truth, ain't it? People, if you're afraid of something, that probably means that there's something important there. You wouldn't be afraid if it wasn't important, right?_

—Rowland Macmillan, Archery Club EP. 17

* * *

Harry, Justin, Ernie, and Hannah hid behind an old, oak tree. In the distance, across the grassy field that surrounded Hogwarts, they all saw a man walk into the Forbidden Forest. The man was alone, wearing a long, dark robe, and a distinctive turban which all four kids had grown used to seeing around the halls since classes started.

"See?" Ernie said, turning back to the other three. "The bloke's off, just like I told ya. Off his rocker, walking in there all alone, suspicious cloak an' everything. I told you I saw him doing it."

Hannah crossed her arms. "It's not _that_ strange, is it? Maybe he's just looking for something."

"Like what?"

Harry was still staring at where the man had disappeared to. The Forbidden Forest worked to earn its name, constantly covered in a wispy, dark mist, as if cursed to forever reject all light. It was pitch black right up on the tree-line, the spaces between trees looking like an army of individual cave entrances, so it hadn't taken any time at all for the man to escape their sight altogether.

"Monsters maybe? Orcs and stuff." Harry said, though without much heat behind it. "He is the defense professor, I'm sure he can take care of himself."

"Orcs and stuff," Ernie said, deadpan, then shook his head. "You sure were raised muggle, I'll give you that."

Justin had lost interest by then, laying his back against the tree and resting his eyes. "You saying you _don't_ have orcs and stuff?"

"Well, sure, but that's not really—"

"Oh, what's any of this matter anyway?" Hanna said, now annoyed. She glared at Ernie, pointing at him like a chastising mother. "You drag us all over here saying it's important, and then show us something perfectly natural! I've got things to do!"

Ernie was unperturbed, scowling back at her. "I dragged these two here," he said, waving a hand at the other boys. "You came on your own. I'd rather you'd stayed behind, to be honest."

"Well I had to come!" Hannah said, huffing. "If you're planning for the friend group, that means I'm involved whether I like it or not!"

"Who ever said you were a part of the friend group?" Ernie said, now shouting, stomping over to Hannah and getting right in her face.

While the two continued to argue, Harry looked over at Justin. "We're a friend group?" he asked.

Justin shrugged. "News to me."

"Anyway, that's not the point!" Ernie said. He ran over to the tree and got on one of its hunched roots, then turned to all three and held his hands out, a man on his soapbox. "C'mon! You can't tell me I'm the only one who thinks this is bloody strange!"

"You're the only one who thinks this is bloody strange," Justin said, his voice monotone.

"Shut up, you."

"What's the big deal?" Hannah said. "The Forbidden Forest is forbidden to _students_. Teachers can do whatever they want, right?"

"Again, that's not the point!"

"Well, what is the point, then?"

"The point is that it's Quirrell we're talking about!" Ernie shouted, and that gave the rest pause. Seeing that his words had reached them, or at least that they weren't denying him, he pressed on. "I can't be the only one who thinks the man is absolutely mental."

Hannah struggled to disagree, more out of habit than any real desire. "I mean… He's just, you know…"

"He walks around like a scared little mouse!" Ernie said. "He talks like there's something stuck in his throat, he can't look you in the eye even when he's _teaching_. I mean, he's a complete ditz! You think so too, right Harry?"

Said boy hesitated at being addressed, and having everyone's eyes on him. "I… guess he _is_ sort of awkward," he said. It made Harry feel bad to say, mostly since he thought he could be fairly awkward himself. But there was no denying that Quirinus Quirrell was by far the most… unique of all his professors.

The man seemed incapable of being around others. Harry could understand—he himself was no socialite—but Quirrell took it a step over the line. Constantly hunched, hands drawn together in what could've been a scheming posture if it wasn't for his worried, roaming eyes and trembling bottom lip. And the way he spoke, with so many pauses, stutters, and hitches, made it hard to even understand what he was saying most of the time. Quirrell could've been a good teacher—he seemed to know what he was lecturing about in classes, and his casting left nothing to be desired—but the way he was, none of his students could ever truly respect him enough to learn anything from him.

Not to mention how he looked at Harry. Nervously, just like with everyone else, like Harry had a snake under his cloak waiting to jump out, but behind the nerves there was something else. The same kind of disgust he'd seen from Snape. A dark tint in his pupils, as dark as the shadows of the forest, and a tensing around the nose, like his nostrils were ready to flare. But unlike Snape, it was hidden. Concealed behind the mild manner. Harry wouldn't have noticed it if he wasn't already so familiar with people disliking him.

"And a guy like that, walking into the dark and dangerous forest all on his own, dressed up like he's in some cult?" Ernie raised his head, a fist coming up with it, and he cried out to the heavens. "I… am curious!"

"Curiosity killed the cat, didn't it?" Justin said, now laying on the grass like a sunbathing cat, either unaware of the irony or uncaring of it.

"No!" Ernie said. "My dad always says, curiosity _saved_ the cat 'cuz then it could see the death coming!" He held his hand out to them, the other pointing to the forest. "So what do you all say? Let's go find out what that wack's up to in there!"

"Pass," Justin said.

"Pass," Hannah said.

"You guys're a bunch of chumps!" Ernie turned to Harry, who again paused at the intensity of his look. "You up for it, Harry? C'mon, you're the Boy Who Lived! Nothing in there's gonna get ya if You-Know-Who didn't!"

"… Okay."

Ernie gave a loud whoot. Justin raised an eyebrow. Hannah gaped.

"Harry, it's against the rules!" Hannah said. "And also it's dangerous in there! I heard there's giant spiders!"

"And orcs," Justin said, cleaning out an ear.

"Yes! And orcs! But most importantly…" Hannah grabbed Harry's collar, shaking him around. "I can't let you give this idiot a win! Don't go!"

Ernie stuck his tongue out at her. "Nya-nya, Harry's coming with me! I guess you lot'll just have to sit back in the commons like a bunch of loooosers!"

"Look at what you're doing to me, Harry!"

Grabbing her hands, Harry gently pulled Hannah off him. He gave her the closest thing he could to a smile, considering the sudden shiver that had begun creeping up his spine. "Sorry, but I guess I'm curious too," he said, and that was the truth. It was just his luck to get two professors who didn't like him, and him in particular. Harry didn't think there was much to do about Snape—the potions master seemed like a moody person in general—but with Quirrell, maybe there was something he could learn to convince the man to let him off.

Plus, there was something to that shiver he was feeling. It wasn't unpleasant. On the contrary, it was… thrilling. The moment Ernie mentioned going into the Forbidden Forest, Harry had felt it building up, like a lit fuse crawling its way to an explosion. It was like what he'd felt when he'd first found out he was a wizard. Like when he'd first gone to Diagon Alley and saw its curving streets, its hovering signs, its colorful people. Like when he'd first seen Hogwarts, the grand castle silhouetted against a foggy, moonlight sky. Like when he'd cast his first spell. It was even a little like what he'd felt when, in the dark of night, he'd made Justin his friend, his first real friend.

It was a good feeling, and it led to good things. Harry was willing to trust it, even as the darkness of the forest loomed somewhere in the back of his mind.

Hannah must've seen something in his face then, because she pouted and looked off to the side. "Well, if you're gonna look like that when you say it…" She closed her eyes and breathed in deep. "I'll go too," she said, hands on her hips, nodding with all the confidence in the world.

Ernie's previous jubilation plummeted into disbelief. "Wait, what?"

"I mean, it's a friend group thing," she said, smirking at Ernie's dumbfounded expression. "What about you, Justin? Care to take a stroll in the scary forest?"

Justin closed his eyes, hands behind his head, for all the world looking like he was set to fall asleep under the shade of the tree they sat next to. "Nah."

Harry, Hannah, and Ernie all looked down at him. "Why not?" Hannah said.

"Don't feel like it."

They were all silent at that. Ernie eventually cupped his chin. "I guess I can't really argue against that," he said.

Hannah, however, only frowned. "What do you mean you don't feel like it?" she asked, huffing.

Justin shrugged. "It just sounds like a hassle. I got enough work with all this homework piling up—"

"—which you haven't exactly tried to do—"

"—and also I'm, I dunno, a scared little boy. See? I'm sooo scared."

Harry looked at him, then back at the other two. "I think he'll go."

At this, Justin opened his eyes. "What makes you say that?" he said, uncertainty seeping into his voice for the first time.

"You need my notes to write your McGonagall paper tomorrow, right? I'm blackmailing you."

"I don't think that's what blackmailing means."

"Well, whatever it is, I'm doing it. Please come?"

Justin looked long at Harry. Finally, he grunted and sat up. "I could write that paper in my sleep, but I'll humor you. Just this once though, since I guess it could be interesting." He sighed at Harry's smile, then turned to Ernie. "Alright, chief, what's the plan?"

Ernie had by then shaken himself from Hannah's inclusion. He passed his eyes over the other three, shooting her a scowl, then smiled anyway. "Alright, he said, and they all leaned forward, "here's what I'm thinking."

* * *

 **FYI, I'd add Hannah on the tag in the description if they let me put more than four characters. Oh well.**

 **Follow, favorite, and review.**


	5. Curiosity, Part 2

**Broadcast #3: Curiosity, Part 2**

* * *

Justin held out his scroll. On it, drawn over the lines of black ink he'd written out the previous night, there was a shiny, red "O." At the bottom of the parchment, a small paragraph was written in the same ink with looped handwriting.

 _Outstanding, Mr. Finch-Fletchley. Simply outstanding. Your metaphor of a hero sprouting from a monster as an analogy for the needle's dangerous nature being transformed into the matchstick's wide-reaching use in society was certainly insightful. Very pleased to see that your reserved nature in the classroom is just a result of your thoughtful mind._

"Well that's just not fair!" Ernie said, crumpling up his own paper. "I actually _read_ the chapter, and all I got was a lousy _Acceptable_!"

Hannah, who had gotten an 'Exceeds Expectations,' folded her own paper and stuffed it into the pocket of her robes. "I never would've thought by just looking at you, but you're pretty smart, huh?" she said.

Crumpling his own paper, Justin began walking away from McGonagall's class. "It's easy," he said, shrugging. "You just have to write what the teachers wanna hear."

Harry himself had gotten an 'Exceeds Expectations,' and he was happy with it. The assignment had taken him a good hour, reading the first chapter of his transfiguration textbook and then writing a full scroll. Along with his grade, McGonagall had also written him a little paragraph of his own. Only two, short sentences:

 _Good work, Mr. Potter. Just a bit more effort on your part and I'm sure you'll earn an 'O' next time._

The crowd of students flooding out of McGonagall's class began splintering off into their own, similar groups, all of them splitting off back home, or towards the courtyard, or the Great Hall. Along the way, Harry saw Susan heading off with her own friends, two first-year Ravenclaws.

Susan seemed to feel his gaze, and turned to him. Harry held out his paper, showing her his grade. After a moment, she showed him her paper too, along with the big, fat 'O' drawn on it. Her face was contemptuous, but it was a sort of fake, playful contempt, and Harry could almost hear the laughter behind it. He smiled at her, and she turned away.

When Harry looked back at his friends, they were all staring at him. Justin only raised a brow, looking otherwise bored, Ernie was scratching his head, and Hannah…

Her sly, widening grin burned at Harry's cheeks.

"What's this all about, Harry?" she asked, drawing closer to him, hands clasped behind her back. "Don't tell me you already found yourself a _girlfriend_."

Justin stepped up next to Hannah, and both of them loomed over Harry, their inquisitive looks like magnifying glasses focusing the sun's heat directly towards him. "Chosen ones have it easy, huh?" the muggleborn boy said.

Harry began shaking his head, stumbling over his words. Luckily for him, Ernie was worried about something else entirely.

"Never mind all that," he said, clapping his hands. "We're on a schedule, remember? Let's go, people!"

* * *

The man in black fled into the Forbidden Forest, and his four students followed.

They'd made sure to change out of their school robes before making the trip. It wouldn't do for them to get stuck in the underbrush, making unnecessary noise and getting caught as a result. As it was, Ernie led the way, then Harry, then Hannah, and finally Justin, who lay a grimace all around him.

"Is it too late to call it quits and go back?" he whispered.

"Yes," everyone else answered.

The outdoors was never Justin's favorite place to be. A calm, pretty field or garden, sure, but the depths of a dark and sticky forest? No thanks, he'd take a comfy couch and controlled airflow any day. Especially crouched low to the ground as he was, forced to cling to trees for cover in case Quirrell decided to turn around.

The plan was as simple as it was enthusiastic. The four Hufflepuffs would follow after Quirrell, quietly, far enough behind the professor to hopefully not be noticed. They would be in the dark, dependent on the light of Quirrell's wand to make their way, as having a light of their own would only bring them unwanted attention. To not get lost, they would all be holding hands and forming a single-file line, with Ernie at the lead and Justin at the end.

It worked well at first. Quirrell seemed his same old self, shuffling his way through the forest, going slow enough that following after him wasn't very difficult. The four tried to keep quiet, and if they had to talk—warn each other about a thicket of thorns, comment on the creepiness of the forest—they did so in short, hushed sentences that were soon swallowed up by the ruffling of tree leaves, the far-off screeching of what must've been wild animals, and a low hum, as if the forest itself were speaking to them in unknown tones.

Unfortunately, for as much intelligence as these children had, they were still children. While Ernie's plan did take much into account, there's only so much that a group of eleven-year-olds could be expected to think of when it comes to walking blindly into a dangerous, dark forest without any dependable form of navigation. The moment of truth came when Quirrell, against all the logic that any of the kids could muster, turned off the light of his wand. The group was instantly enshrouded in the pitch black that had been surrounding them all along.

Ernie froze, as did the other three. They all instinctively huddled together, and as they shivered in the sudden bite of cold that ran through the air, the sounds that they'd been so ardently ignoring throughout their hike began to grow louder in their ears. Low, blaring gawks echoed somewhere in the distance, as did the quiet but incessant clipping of what must've been insects crawling up and down the twisted barks of looming and now invisible trees. With a quickening of the breath, Harry remembered the giant spiders Hannah had talked about the day before, and she must've remembered too, because her grip on his hand tightened painfully.

"C-Cast a light," she said, whispering not in the attempt to be sneaky, but out of pure fear. Her voice trembled, and behind it Harry could hear the heart hammering at her throat. "Someone c-c-cast a l-light."

"No!" Ernie said, his own whisper strained. "We can't. Quirrell might still be out there, maybe he found out."

"Then what does it matter?!" Hannah said, and Harry realized that the fear she spoke with must've been simmering since the moment they walked into the forest. Maybe it'd been there ever since she'd agreed to come with them. She'd been able to hold it down, perhaps out of confidence in their plan or in herself, but that confidence was now crumbling. Her voice broke. "Cast a light!"

"If we do now, he'll know for sure," Ernie said. His own voice sounded hard, and Harry imagined him scowling out into the darkness. "We're _not_ getting caught."

As foolhardy as he was surely being, Harry couldn't help but respect the other boy. Ernie was as scared as all the rest—this Harry could feel through the shake in his hand, and even the slight breathiness in his tone—yet he wouldn't allow himself to fall into the hole that Hannah had, and that Harry himself was slowly sinking into.

But Hannah was right. They couldn't just stand there forever. If their own fear didn't do them in, surely something out of that terrifying chorus would. A giant spider, an orc, maybe even the twisting branches and roots, which under Harry's feet felt more like half-buried snakes. It wasn't safe.

Justin's voice sounded out from somewhere close. "Two minutes," he said. "Count to two minutes, and it should be alright."

That sounded sensible enough, and so Ernie allowed himself to allow it, if only because even he couldn't hold onto the tough-guy act forever.

It was the worst two minutes Harry had ever experienced. Worse than the cupboard under the stairs, which had been equally as dark but not quite as cold, nor as filled with the unknown. In his small room, Harry had at least been able to hold out his hand and know that he would surely touch a wall, or the small cabinet where he kept his hand-me-down clothes, or the handle of his locked door. Here, even if his hands had been free—Ernie's grip was now as tight as Hannah's, and his own hand wasn't exactly limp in theirs—even if his hands had been free, Harry knew that they wouldn't have reached anything. Just air, like waving at a void.

And somewhere, they all heard a cry rise up and then abruptly die. The strange noise disquieted them more than any other, for it was close and, above that, beautiful. A single-note melody played by a master, high and piercing like a violin, reaching out from the dark and touching their very souls. But its end had been an affront to its beauty, as if, right in the middle of that great song, a string had snapped.

Time flowed on, and finally, after what seemed like two minutes, Hannah said, "now, already!" and none protested. Harry held out his wand, and with a simple flick, cast his newest spell.

" _Lumos,"_ he said, and the four were imbued with light, eyes narrowing as if coming out from a cave into early morning.

They looked at each other, finding equally pale faces. Then, Hannah marched up to Ernie and punched him in the gut. He groaned, sinking to his knees, while Hannah wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. She didn't cry many tears, but the few that did escape her eyelids clung to the cloth of her sleeve.

"We are _never_ doing that again!" she said.

Harry and Justin looked at each other, then down at Ernie, who's breath had been thoroughly knocked out of him. They took a step back as the downed boy got his feet under him, first with the help of his hands, then alone. Harry considered helping, but the sight of Hannah standing there, glaring down at Ernie with wet eyes, stopped him.

Air returned to Ernie in ragged heaves. "Fair enough," he said, shocking them all. "I'm sorry I scared you."

His wording had been precise; he wasn't sorry he'd made them stand in the dark, or even that he'd gotten them into the Forbidden Forest to begin with, but he was sorry that his decisions had caused Hannah so much grief. There were no excuses. Just acceptance, and an apology that came out, not without some difficulty, but certainly with finality.

Hannah kept glaring for a second, eyes narrowing, then lowered her head. "Well… I guess I shouldn't have hit you. I'm sorry too."

Harry felt himself release a deep breath he hadn't even realized he was holding in, and he thought he saw Justin do the same.

"Don't mess with Hannah," Justin said, hands in his pockets as if he were casually waiting for the bus and not stuck in the middle of a dark and terrifying wilderness. "Got it."

That got a chuckle out of Harry, and before they knew it, all four were laughing. Whatever spring they'd been coiling up had finally sprung, and luckily for all of them it hadn't resulted in their split or further horror. The laughter seemed to brighten the forest around them, casting the pitch black in shades of monochrome grey, even toning down the atmospheric clatter that had been taking them in its maw.

"Alright chaps, time to go back," Ernie said. He looked around, eyes searching through a forest he couldn't truly see, and sighed. "We lost him alright. No point sticking around now."

Hannah and Justin nodded, but Harry raised his wand above him, still looking through the shadows. "Wait a bit," he said softly. When everyone stared at him, he coughed and raised his voice. "You all heard that at the end, didn't you?"

The memory felt morose to all of them, and not only because it reminded them of those horrifying two minutes in the dark.

"It sounded like…" Hannah started, but couldn't finish. Not out loud, and Justin was kind enough to finish her thought for her.

"Like something dying," he said, face blank. "Or getting killed. Not too far, either."

Harry pointed. "Somewhere over there," he said, and without another word, began walking over.

The other three looked at each other, confused faces darkening as their source of light wandered further away. Over the last week they'd had with him, they had grown used to Harry's tranquil, almost reclusive demeanor. Often he would just do as the others did, happy enough to follow along with their wants as he had with Ernie's. Now, as he walked further on ahead, losing himself in the dark, his sudden bout of individual desire seemed far too alien. But, they followed.

"Can we get any more light here?" Hannah said, their party now stretched.

Ernie pulled out his wand and cast his own light spell. He slowed, positioning himself at the back of the group, and with Harry in front, the light was enough that no one had to glare down at the ground just to make sure of their footing anymore.

Seeing the two boys waving their wands so casually, Hannah grumbled. "I wish I could pick up spells so fast," she said. She looked back at Justin with suspicious eyes. "Don't tell me you can cast _lumos_ too."

He shrugged. "Maybe. Might as well let these two handle it, though."

"You're just being lazy," Hannah said.

"It's all practice," Ernie said, frowning. "Should've seen our room after charms class. Harry kept us all up with it, casting over and over."

"I tried to be quiet," Harry said sheepishly.

"It's not about the noise, mate. You lit up the whole room."

"I had my curtains drawn."

"Very thin curtains," Justin said.

Before Harry could answer, they reached their destination, and the sight that waited there for them stopped them all short.

Lying on the ground was a corpse. The body was that of a horse, its coat so white that they could see its bright silhouette even in the deep shadows it hid. On its head, caked with dirt, was a horn. And it was a fresh body, very fresh if the blood oozing off its neck and pooling on the dirt meant anything. It was a silvery blood, their wand-light reflecting off it and making it sparkle in the dark, as if the stars had been stolen from the sky and tossed into a pile of mud.

No one knew what to say. None so much as turned to each other, eyes firmly set on the dead creature, feeling only a deep well of disappointment, and the strange sense that something had been swiftly stolen, something unnamable but important. The unicorn had been beautiful beyond belief, this they knew, could see it with their own plain eyes, but now it was only a body, an object, cast off uncaringly like so much trash. Merely part of the land now.

The group looked at it for what seemed like a long time, their silence fading into the sounds of the forest, themselves part of the land now. Eventually, Ernie cleared his throat.

"Alright chaps," he said, his voice dead flat, "time to go back."

They did.

On their way out, Harry felt something slipping away from him. It wasn't anything he was actually holding, but he knew it was slipping nonetheless. As if the darkness hadn't been beaten back by his wand-light, but had merely receded and was now slowly filling him again, this time permanently. As if the silvery blood had been his own, and now it would cake the forest floor for the rest of time, forever removed from him, and no amount of his own red blood could ever replace it. When Harry stepped out of the tree-line and out into the castle grounds, he felt his shadow cling tightly to him, darker than ever, set to stay.

* * *

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	6. Curiosity, Part 3

**Broadcast #3: Curiosity, Part 3**

* * *

The next day, Defense Against the Dark Arts was a rather tense affair. Harry, Justin, Hannah, and Ernie sat on one of the long row tables, all facing forward, eyes firmly boring into Quirrell. The professor stood at the front of the class, hands wringing together, eyes shifting from left to right as always, trying and failing to lecture about the dangers of rogue unicorns.

The topic had obviously been a sore one for the group of four, and for a scant few seconds they all believed that they'd been found out. Walking out of the forest had seemed too easy after all, too simple. They'd breached school policy and there seemed to be no repercussions, no way for the faculty to discover them. It was too good to be true, and they knew it.

So when Quirrell began talking about unicorns, the night before flashed violently in Harry's eyes. The stealthy trailing of their professor, the two minutes in darkness, and finally, the oozing silver blood. He'd looked at his friends, and found them just as pale and frozen-faced as he knew himself to be.

But it came to nothing. As it turned out, unicorns were the day's topic by pure circumstance. It was an ironic reminder, but a reminder nonetheless, and so the group sat stiff and nervous throughout the hour.

When class ended, they all sighed in unison, even Justin who out of all of them had managed to keep a modicum of normalcy in his face. The other three had fidgeted in their seats, cheeks twitching, eyes shifty much like the man that caused it. But at the end, none of them could hide their relief, and all of them promptly stood and joined the crowd of students out the door.

"Mr. Potter."

Harry froze. A moment later, so did his friends. The other students passed them by, some looking at him, most not, busy with their own troubles. Harry opened his mouth, found that his voice was gone, and gulped. It was enough to get something out.

"Yes, professor?" he said, not turning around.

"W-Would you very much mind staying b-behind for a moment? I have something to t-t-talk to you about."

Justin, Ernie, and Hannah were all staring at him, eyes wide, lips parted halfway. Justin in particular looked ready to say something, but Harry raised his head and shook it. With a deep breath, he turned around to face the professor.

"Sure."

Draco Malfoy, who had been walking out along with his fellow Slytherins, threw Harry a malicious little smirk. "Someone's in trouble," he sang, to the laughter of the two large cronies behind him.

Malfoy had proven himself to be quite the little shit over the first week of school. Nothing too serious, and nothing that most kids in their year hadn't had to deal with, but Harry had enough experience with bullies to know that Malfoy had quickly established himself as one. And, of course, Harry himself hadn't done a good job at getting into the Slytherin's good graces.

Right now wasn't the time to worry about such trivial things, however. Harry saw his friends hesitantly walk out along with the rest. Susan was among the crowd; she spared him a glance but not much else. Probably thought he'd gotten himself into trouble again, he thought, grimacing. Maybe she was just glad to not be a part of it this time.

Once everyone else had left, Harry and Quirrell were left alone in the classroom, standing across from each other. Harry put a hand in his robe pocket, and touched the wand hidden within. He gripped it tight.

"Please, feel free to take a seat," Quirrell said, gesturing to the now empty desks around them.

A moment of hesitation, and Harry did. He slowly walked over to the nearest chair and sat down, several rows away from the professor, who calmly stood at the front of the class. Harry made sure to maintain eye contact all throughout. He saw that look in Quirrell's eyes again, the vague dislike, and pretended not to.

"You're not in trouble, if that's what you're wondering," Quirrell said. He walked towards Harry, and just when the boy was ready to stand and draw his wand, he stopped. The professor grabbed a chair, twirled it around, sat on it, and leaned forward on his knees. "I just wanted to… discuss yesterday evening."

Harry's poker face broke, not by much, but enough for Quirrell to notice. The professor put up a hand. "No reason to look so shocked, Mr. Potter. I _am_ a Defense professor, after all. Wouldn't be much of one if I couldn't tell when I was being followed."

It was only then that Harry noticed how Quirrell had stopped stuttering, how his posture had straightened. It was as if a different man had crawled into his skin, and this strangely calmed the boy. This was not an act anymore, and since Quirrell already knew about the forest and wasn't getting Harry into trouble for it, there wasn't any need for him to feel cornered.

"I'm sorry, professor," Harry said, bowing his head. The excuse he and his friends had agreed on the night before came easily. "I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about, I suppose."

"In the Forbidden Forest?" Quirrell asked, and Harry nodded. "It's forbidden for a reason, you know."

"I do now," Harry said, trying his best to keep his voice steady. "I figured it wouldn't be so dangerous with you close by."

Quirrell hummed, and though Harry looked down at his lap he could feel the professor's gaze, roving over him like a spotlight. He eventually heard the professor sigh.

"Well, nothing happened, so I suppose I can let you off this once," Quirrell said. He stood up from his seat and neared Harry, who tried not to tense up. "Just don't do it again and we're square, alright? It's not safe for students to be going out there all alone, even with a professor nearby."

Harry nodded, thinking over Quirrell's words and finding something in them, not letting the discovery show in his face. "Thank you, professor," he said, and stood.

Before he could walk away, that feeling he'd felt before rose up, that which had led him into the forest, the surge of incessant, fluttering emotion whose orders he'd decided to follow like a loyal soldier. So Harry turned his head.

"Professor Quirrell, why do you act like that?" he said.

Quirrell raised a brow. "Like what?"

"All nervous, jittery. It's not really you, is it?"

The professor stared at Harry, blankly, then smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile, though it was meant to be. Harry recognized it as the same that his aunt gave her guests whenever they asked about him, the same smile she gave right before ordering him back to his cupboard under the stairs. The smile of a statue, as if etched on white marble.

"I'm not very good with crowds," Quirrell said, and Harry did not believe him. "Have a good day, Mr. Potter."

"You too, professor."

Harry left.

For all his disgruntlement at Malfoy's antics, in another life, Harry might've been judged by the Sorting Hat as a Slytherin in nature. This was, simply put, because he was no fool. He knew, as the Dursleys had taught him—and how ironic it was, that the things he'd learned in his imprisonment by them had turned out so useful here, in his place of freedom—that people didn't necessarily act the way they felt. So as Harry walked out into the hall, he considered everything he'd learned in his brief conversation, not through Quirrell's acting, but through the meaning behind it.

First, Quirrell thought Harry had gone into the forest alone. Or, at least, he didn't know whether anyone else had gone. It was the reason he had asked Harry to stay behind, but not anyone else. Harry didn't know how this was, but he thought it worth remembering. If anything, it made him relieved to know that his friends weren't found out.

Second, Quirrell was a liar. The man Harry had just talked to wasn't the same as the man whom he'd been taking classes from, the man whom he'd first seen at the entrance ceremony, cowering behind all the other professors. This was a sure man. And he was also perhaps a dangerous man, because Harry couldn't think of any reason why Quirrell would go to such lengths to hide himself in the first place.

Third, and perhaps most important, Quirrell didn't want people following him into the forest. It had likely been the whole point of this little meeting. Quirrell had let Harry know that he knew what the boy did, and would know in the future if the boy tried again. He'd put it softly by not officially reprimanding him—thank God, as his detentions with Snape and Susan were enough as it was—but he'd still made his message clear: _stop, or you're in trouble._

If Harry had suspected Quirrell for the dead unicorn in the forest, he was as good as sure now. And what possible reason could a Hogwarts professor have for going into the Forbidden Forest, killing its creatures, and not wanting anyone to know? All the reasons Harry could think of only roiled his stomach.

Well, he thought, stepping into the Hufflepuff commons, it seemed he had a lot to tell his friends about.

* * *

 **This will close out the "Curiosity" chapter, and I'm quite glad about that. It wasn't supposed to be three parts—it just ended up this way. I suppose this will be a pattern when it comes to chapters that progress the plot. Think of this as the inciting incident.**

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	7. Mentor

**Broadcast #4: Mentor**

* * *

 _Of course, I could only learn so much on my own. Books don't cut it. Trial and error sure don't cut it either, unless you wanna learn some bad habits. Eventually, I had to get back in classes. But this time was different, see, 'cuz I actually wanted to._

 _Different teacher. I couldn't face the same one as before. Too embarrassed. So I got a different one, and I'm real glad I did. Fella by the name of Eliot Penn. Another muggle, sure, but a real class act, Eliot. Taught me everything I know, and more important, taught me_ how _to know. Taught me to get up in the mornin' even if I didn't want to, and to keep practicing even if my draw-arm was sore. Taught me to fight through it, you know._

 _You need someone like that. Even if it's not for this bow stuff, all that's important. Someone who knows what's best for ya._

—Rowland Macmillan, Archery Club EP. 12

* * *

Professor Pomona Sprout considered herself a hands-off type of teacher. She'd agreed to be Head of Hufflepuff House, sure, but she did it with the same philosophy her own parents had used to raise her: eventually, these kids will figure it out. That's what she believed. Children can't learn unless they're allowed to do it on their own.

It's the same philosophy Pomona passed down to her prefects over the years. Let the new ones mess up and learn from their mistakes. Don't be overbearing, don't use that badge like a mallet on their heads for every little trip-up. She thought she'd done well teaching that. So when Jane—her fifth-year prefect—had knocked on her door to complain about a couple of first-years, Pomona suspected it was relatively serious. When Jane told her that the culprits were one Susan Bones, niece to the head of Britain's Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived and general wizarding world wonder, Pomona _knew_ it was relatively serious.

When Jane told her that the two first-years in question had together cost Hufflepuff House a heaping fifty house points in the first week of classes, Pomona, for the first time in her many years at Hogwarts, regretted not being more stringent on her students. Hufflepuff House didn't even _have_ fifty points to lose. Two students had singlehandedly sent her house in the _negatives_ after just four days into the year.

But Pomona wasn't so insecure in her teaching style to change it over a single instance like this, even if it was rather extreme. So, she sat back and watched. Watched as the two first-years went to their joint detention sessions. Watched as Susan excelled in all her classes, and as Harry allowed himself to excel only in certain ones. Watched as Susan outsourced her friendships, forming many thin bonds across houses, and as Harry kept his circle small but close within Hufflepuff.

Weeks passed. After the second, their detentions had ceased. After the third, Susan had risen to the top of her year, second only to a certain Gryffindor girl who herself seemed to do nothing but study. After the fourth, Harry had proven himself a natural on a broom, and Flitwick couldn't seem to shut up about him.

Pomona herself had taken the opportunity of examining them personally during her herbology classes. Where Harry was quiet, Susan was outspoken. Where Harry was satisfied with a passing grade, Susan would accept nothing but a perfect one.

And yet, where Harry seemed to be having fun, always smiling at the magical plant life which to his newly-opened eyes must've been a wonder, Susan only glanced for long enough at it to do the assignment before moving onto something else. It was as if she were just crossing something off her list, as inconsequential as all the other small steps on her way to a full row of checkmarks.

Two very interesting kids indeed. It was about time to step in.

* * *

"Catch."

Harry fumbled with the toadlett he'd been thrown. The small, fist-sized creature wiggled in his fingers, like a goldfish suddenly dropped into a fishbowl after a lifetime in the vast ocean.

The boy hadn't so much as stepped into the greenhouse before getting roped into whatever it was Professor Sprout was up to. She told him to check the toadlett for black spots—marks of disease, the same kind of work they'd been doing in class.

Toadletts were tiny mushroom creatures, two-eyed and capable of walking on stunted legs. Much like other fungi, they relied on nutrients from the organic matter around them, but unlike other fungi, they were partially conscious, mobile, and therefore incredibly successful survivors. This Harry remembered learning over the last few days of herbology, the facts coming to him as he worked.

He and Sprout shared a table. On one end, a batch of toadletts scurried about, the same batch from which the two wizards would pick one out and check for marks. If the creature was clean, they'd simply throw it over to all the other safe ones. If it wasn't clean, they'd put it with the other unsafe ones, ready for whatever medicine Sprout decided to concoct later.

First, Harry turned the little guys over, then he checked under their mushroom tops. All along, the toadlett would squirm, and upon being released, would quickly join its fellow freed compatriots. There wasn't any need to keep them penned in—they were too small to cause much trouble, even if they hadn't been so docile in nature.

The work carried on in silence for a good ten minutes. Of course, Harry was curious to know why Sprout had called him by owl if it was for something as seemingly menial as this, but as the time passed, and as he got back into the same routine he'd built during class—twist, turn upside down, throw, pick up the next one—Harry began to smile. It was funny how the little creatures shimmied in his hands, and how happy they seemed to rejoin their friends once the check-up was done. Sprout had said that toadletts held a very simple mind, incapable of culture and memory, but to Harry it looked as if they were dancing with communal joy.

"Your birthday is during the summer, isn't it, Mr. Potter?" Sprout said, still working, eyes looking down at her hands.

The question broke Harry out of his reverie. It had been long enough by then that he'd just assumed she wouldn't say anything, and if she did, he certainly hadn't imagined it to be about his birthday of all things. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes, now more confused than ever. "Yeah, July 31st," he said.

Sprout bowed her head slightly, eyes closed, and stopped working. Harry thought he could almost hear her brain humming inside her skull. "Sun, Leo. Moon… Pisces." she said, a small smile blooming on her face, as if she had finally found the answer to some riddle, the sheer certainty of her knowledge taking on a sort of glow that straightened her aged shoulders and smoothed her wrinkled face. "What an interesting combination."

She continued her work, as if having said nothing. Harry forced himself to turn to her, fighting back the urge to keep quiet and move along as he had. It was difficult, but his being there made too little sense to ignore. "Professor Sprout," he said, slowly, considering every individual syllable. "Is there a reason you called me?" His face dropped, suddenly very tired. "I'm not in trouble again, am I?"

"Heavens no. Used to trouble, are you?"

"… I'm not sure I want to answer that."

Sprout threw her head back and laughed. "Well, you're honest enough for a Hufflepuff, I'll give you that," she said, although in her mind she thought he was being just a bit disingenuous.

The careful approach that Harry took was too calculated to be honest. It was a very cunning strategy, to act so mild-mannered on purpose, but to what end? Pomona now knew that the answer to that was the reason Harry had been assigned to Hufflepuff in the first place.

She'd spoken with Susan the day before. The girl hadn't had the patience that Harry did, calmly but immediately questioning her purpose there. Stray, inconsequential questions of birthdays hadn't led her off the path. Insights of astrology had only annoyed her, even if Susan had been too polite to admit it.

"Lancelot was a knight in King Arthur's court," she said abruptly. Harry made no reply, and Sprout waited for him to interrupt her, to at least ask what that had to do with anything, but he didn't. He only listened. "He picked his own title before he was ever inducted into the Round Table. _Le Chavalier Mal Fet._ French for the Ill-Made Knight. You've heard of Lancelot, I bet?"

Harry nodded, but didn't say anything. He was watching her intently, and Sprout was pleased to see it wasn't just submission on his part. There was a depth to his eyes, and Sprout knew he was replaying her words in his head, trying to figure them out. He asked nothing because he didn't think she'd tell him the truth, Sprout knew. Like he thought she was tricking him in some way. Sprout let him believe that.

"The greatest knight in Camelot," she said. "Famed more than any other as Arthur's right-hand-man. As virtuous as a saint, as strong as a giant, as skilled as a god. But he had one flaw, or so the stories say."

Here her voice lowered. Harry heard the shuffling of the toadletts abandoned by him now, his attention entirely taken by his head of house. "He took pleasure in causing pain, you see. Hurting their feelings, defeating them in combat. I suppose you could say he liked proving that he was better than others." Sprout had gotten through the rest of the fungi-based creatures. Her wand glided up from inside her sleeve, and with a wave, she brought all the sick into the air and floated them into a basket on the floor. "It's really no different from any regular person, but Lancelot took it rather personally. He wanted to be a great knight, after all, with chivalry and purity and all that. He locked those evil desires away, and he became the best precisely because of how aware he was of them. Do you catch my meaning?"

Harry furrowed his brow, thinking. Eventually, he gave up with a pout. "Not really, no. But it sounds important."

"It certainly is." Sprout bent down and grabbed the basket. With a heave, she picked it up. "Well, don't mind me, rambling about all that nonsense," she said. "I suppose I only wanted some company while I did my chores."

That was a lie and they both knew it, but Harry nodded and smiled.

"Have a good day, Mr. Potter. See you in class."

"You too, professor."

Pomona watched him go, and as she did, she couldn't help but picture a lion being swallowed up by a mighty fish.

* * *

 **I feel like this one might just be too confusing. Even I have a hard time fully understanding what I just wrote down, to be honest.**

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	8. Envy

**Broadcast #5: Envy**

* * *

 _I had to stop going out to parties. Now, ask anyone who knows me; I love parties. I love drinking, and I love talking, and dancing, and going wild. In my younger years, it's all I did. But once I started getting really into this archery business—I mean once it looked like something I could live for—it started getting in the way. So I had to stop._

 _I tried not to. I practiced as hard as I could while still going out two or three times a week. But by that point I'd gone competitive, and I wasn't growing. All my rivals were getting better and better, and I was staying the same. I mean, while I was out on the street bar-hopping, or back home the next day with a killer hangover, or getting dressed for the night, they were out on the target, shooting._

 _So there was a choice. Either I kept things the same, or I stopped going out and put everything I had into this… thing that I was really falling in love with. The choice was obvious, but it was still hard; after all, I love parties. But I loved this more._

—Rowland Macmillan, Archery Club EP. 22

* * *

Harry had noticed her at the start of October.

Sometimes, when he was in class casting a charm, or brewing a potion, or taking notes, a head would pop out of the wall. It was Ravenclaw's ghost, the Grey Lady. She'd just appear—not always, but often enough—and listen in to whatever it was they were doing, watching over the class like a pale and translucent guardian angel. Although her expression always remained stony, as if she were one of the many statues clinging to Hogwart's walls, she nevertheless kept coming to classes.

No one else noticed of course. Or if they did, they didn't make a fuss about it. The professors surely knew, but they didn't bring it up. The students were usually too absorbed in the assignment, or in whatever distractions they'd concocted. And the Grey Lady didn't make the effort to draw any attention, simply floating at the back of the class, close to the ceiling, silent as a still night.

It was by pure accident that Harry had seen her in the first place. He'd been practicing his _reparo_ in transfiguration class by, against Hannah's warnings, breaking and repairing his own glasses. He'd thought it funny, and his sense of humor had clearly not been shared by the young witch.

Each time he fixed his glasses, he put them on and looked around the room, making sure they worked properly. That was when he, by pure chance, noticed the ghost loitering at the top corner of the classroom. She'd seen him looking, and had promptly faded away. But that was enough, and now that he was aware of her, Harry found it easy to spot her whenever she happened to show up.

Ghosts had been hard to compromise. Wands, living paintings, animated plant-life, sure he could see that. They were strange, but Harry had been expecting strangeness when he got to Hogwarts. Magic, basically. If it was deemed magic, Harry was free to accept its existence regardless of how impossible it should've been, since, after all, the impossible was what magic did.

But ghosts weren't just magic. They were at some point alive. Sometimes wizards, sure, but most ghosts were the spirits of normal, everyday people who were just as shocked about the magical world as they were about their own afterlifes. That's what Harry's Defense textbook said, at least.

Apparently, ghosts weren't even really part of the world. They existed in a sort of veiled state, wherein they could pull the curtain over themselves and become invisible to those in what living people might consider reality. Not an alternate dimension, but a _layered_ dimension which covered the real one like a blanket, a blanket which ghosts could easily and willfully phase through.

Harry didn't understand any of this, of course, but it was a good summary of what he'd read. To him, ghosts were an entirely different creature than what they were in life. There was a person, and upon death they became something else, a ghastly image of what once was. The barrier between life and death was too thick for him, too decisive, and therefore no one could go through it and come back.

Some ghosts, like Hufflepuff's Fat Friar, were friendly enough. Harry could speak to them, laugh at their jokes, wonder at their transparency—like looking through moving glass—and most of all, hear their death stories. Ghosts seemed unendingly interested in sharing their death stories. Some were funny, some sad, some gruesome. If a student tried telling any of his own, the ghosts would usually drift off, or nod politely with clear boredom. The stories of life were beyond them now.

But the Grey Lady wasn't like other ghosts. The others weren't interested in mortal things like classwork. Even ghosts who were muggles in life didn't care to learn about magic. It wasn't like they could do it, so they ignored it, and magic became just another mundane part of their new un-lives. The Grey Lady _was_ interested. She cared enough to come to class, at least, even if she was already dead.

One day, Harry saw her floating aimlessly through the halls. He followed her, on a whim, weaving through the students walking between classes. Every corner she turned, he turned. Every wall she went through, like diving into a ripple-less pond, he found the adjacent door to. When they came upon the Grand Staircase, she began going up, rising like a balloon in the wind, and Harry went up the stairs two steps at a time, struggling with the books he held under his arm.

He followed her all the way up to the Astronomy Tower. It was the highest point in Hogwarts, and the first time Harry himself had been there. Empty, as it usually was outside of classes, though Harry knew that the telescope was charmed to work properly even in broad daylight. When he finished climbing the spiraling staircase all the way up to the domed room at its peak, he found that the Grey Lady was waiting for him.

Up close, she held a frigid beauty, her face strangely shriveled in cold, stony contempt. No wrinkles, but icy lines, sternness having aged her features more than time. And her cheeks were ever so gaunt, sunken, white.

"Following others is rude, little boy," she said, low-pitched, the voice of an opera singer.

Harry hesitated, finding himself alone, but this time it was of his own choice. He'd kept mostly quiet with Quirrell, and with Sprout, but he was smart enough to realize he had only because he could. Here, _he_ had followed the Grey Lady. No plan, no real motivation outside of pure whimsy. Ernie's voice came to him then, _I… am curious!_ And with a bang of realization Harry realized that he was also feeling that same thing that had led him to the forest. Under the surface, barely there, sure, but it was there. It had taken control of his legs before he could even think on it, and now there he was. So he opened his mouth.

"You could've gone invisible," he said.

The Grey Lady was taken aback, though she didn't show it outside of a simple blink. "I was curious as to what you would do," she said, voice unchanging. She drifted closer to him, ghastly robes churning in the air. "So, little Hufflepuff, what to do?"

How ironic, Harry thought. They were both curious little bees. "You know my name," he guessed.

The ghost's face remained the same. "Who doesn't?" she said. "You were the talk of the town some years ago. Harry Potter, am I right?"

Harry nodded. He gulped, feeling suddenly nervous. "What's your name?" he said.

The Grey Lady raised a brow. "I imagine you know it. They call me the Grey Lady."

"I mean your real name."

Suddenly, the Grey Lady flinched back. Her eyes glared, and Harry begun trembling. A force came upon him, a sort of cold creeping across his skin, beamed through her sharp pupils. "And why would you ever need to know that?" she asked, and her opera singer voice reached a treble that sunk deep into Harry's bones, rattling them unlike anything else he'd ever felt.

"I just wanted to know why you come into classes," Harry said, avoiding her eyes. His voice wavered, but he bit his lip and refused to listen to that fleeting instinct that had assailed him. "You're not like the other ghosts."

That seemed to calm her, though the intensity in her gaze was still there. Her face, which had become pure glacial iron, had once again softened into normal stone. She stared at him in silence for what felt like hours, then turned around.

"How strange that you weren't made a Ravenclaw," she said. She floated towards the telescope, looking like she was set to bend and look through its eyeglass. But she didn't. Instead, she looked at the telescope itself, its brass, clockwork design reaching up in a giant cone, popping out of the observatory's shell. "I see you in your classes. How talented you are. It almost makes me jealous."

"I'm not very talented, I don't think," Harry said, thinking of Susan, who was acing all her classes, or even Justin, who seemed to sleep through all of them and pass anyway out of sheer brilliance.

"Wandwork speaks for itself," the ghost said.

"Why are you jealous?"

"I said it _almost_ made me feel jealous," she said, turning around. She began drifting closer again, and Harry had to bite down once more on that instinct that told him, _ordered_ him to run. Heat seeped out of the air as she neared, and by the time she stopped right in front of him, Harry shivered not out of fear but out of cold. "If you must know, I _enjoy_ watching magic. I enjoy watching you little children learn it for the first time. It reminds me of a time long ago."

Harry looked up at her. There was something soft at the edge of her eyes. He'd thought there were no wrinkles, like the ghost was made of ivory, but now he saw crow's feet at their edges. "Were you a Hogwarts student?" he said softly.

They looked at each other. Like a soft breeze, she answered. "Yes."

And a girl appeared before Harry. A girl much like himself, just as young, just as new to all of this. A girl who loved waving her wand and speaking the spells like he did. A girl who loved receiving mail from owls, and who gaped at defying gravity on a broomstick, who fancied her long and wavy robes, who ate chocolate frogs and thought it funny when they moved in her mouth. A girl who had gotten old and died.

And for the first time in a long time, Harry felt sad. Years before, he'd simply stopped crying about living in a cupboard under the stairs. He'd stopped crying about living with another family who seemed to despise him. And he'd never cried about his parents, but now, he felt like doing it. He felt like crying, but he didn't. Instead, he said, "I'm sorry," and he well and truly meant it.

Something in his voice must've come through, because the Grey Lady softened more. Her wrinkles became clearer. "I'm sorry too," she said.

"I practice every night," he said. "Spells, I mean. In the Hufflepuff common room. It's just first-year stuff, but… Well, you can come watch if you'd like."

The Grey Lady looked away. "I don't much like the Fat Friar. He's too loud for my tastes," she said.

"He's not around very much."

"The _Fat Friar_. Really."

"Well, he's not around _all_ the time."

Here, the Grey Lady smiled. A very small smile, barely a quirk of the lips. It was the most out-of-place smile Harry had ever seen, something completely foreign not just to her face, but to her entire being. And yet, it's strangeness gave it novelty, and Harry thought it pretty.

"We will see," she said. Then, after a moment, "I… appreciate the offer. Thank you, Harry Potter."

"Just Harry is fine."

"Harry, of course." The Grey Lady looked conflicted for a moment, but her eyes evened out once more. The wrinkles disappeared, as did the smile, and her face took on the same structured nothingness she'd held most of the time. "We will see, then."

And she disappeared. Once there, now gone, fading into the air like thin mist. Harry stared at where she'd been, felt his heart beating cold. He thought of how to put this little episode to his friends, then decided to simply not mention it. If they stumbled upon a foreign ghost in their common room, he would just enjoy their surprise.

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	9. Harry Potter

**Broadcast #6: Harry Potter**

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Star light, star bright,

First star I see tonight,

I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have the wish I make tonight.

Figaro, you know what I wish? I wish that my little Pinocchio might be a real boy. Wouldn't that be nice? Just think! A real boy!

—Master Geppetto, once upon a time

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Harry and Ernie were the only two from their little band to stay for the holidays. Fall had gone by in a blink, and when the time came for them to say goodbye to all their friends, it had come as something of a surprise. The calendar didn't lie, however, and so Justin, Hannah, and all the rest left for home to spend Christmas break with their families. What remained was a thinly spread contingent of leftover students, barely enough to fit two handfuls. In Hufflepuff House alone, Harry had counted less than ten across all seven years.

Harry stayed in Hogwarts because the only other option was to stay with the Dursleys, and that wasn't much of an option at all. Ernie had stayed with him because of less desperate reasons: to personally continue their investigations on Professor Quirrell, as well as to keep Harry company. At least, those had been the reasons he'd given.

The others had been sad to go—Hannah in particular, though even Justin had looked the least bit hesitant behind his uncaring veneer—but their parents had been firm in wanting to see their children after so many months apart. Harry had asked Ernie why his own family was so lax, but the other boy had waved the question away like a bad smell. As it turned out, Ernie's father was rather busy, even during holidays.

The two boys had taken to exploring the castle in their time off. Sometimes it was in a vain attempt to find and follow Quirrell—they hadn't seen the defense professor since classes ended, though they knew he must be there still—but mostly, it was done out of a mixture of restlessness and excited curiosity. Hogwarts was the largest, most labyrinthine place either of them had ever been in, corridors twisting out and over each other like a nest of coiling snakes. They'd already managed to find plenty of weird things, whether it be secret pathways between classrooms, or hidden staircases, or the odd statue long unanimated.

Harry had asked the Grey Lady for any interesting locations. She was by this point something akin to friendly with him, even if her visits had been rarer than not. Ernie was creeped out by the ghost, far more than Harry's other friends, always more than an arm's length away from her translucent image. But she didn't take it personally, was barely interested in speaking to anyone other than Harry in fact, and had freely told them about something she'd found during her many haunts through Hogwarts' halls. Something new, installed that very year. Something she herself couldn't quite understand.

"A mirror," she had told them, floating over their heads as they sat comfortably in the Hufflepuff commons. The other students, the few who had stayed, were either asleep or off on their own misadventures through the castle, leaving the three alone in the dim light of the fire. "I can feel its magic, but know not its purpose. If I didn't know better, I'd think it ordinary. Nothing in its reflection seems unusual to me, but I am a ghost, and its charm might only be meant for the living."

Ernie, despite his suspicions of the Grey Lady herself, was more than intrigued at her proposition. That very night, they sneaked out of their commons, journeyed up out of the castle dungeons, and made their way through the silent halls to where they'd been told this mirror was. Sixth floor, end of the fourth corridor, a classroom with its door covered on both sides by large, dusty cabinets, as if hidden away.

Just being there, despite the wide and tall archways that made up Hogwarts' hallways, Harry barely felt like he was in the castle at all. The place was too far from everything else, like the most remote island in an otherwise clustered archipelago. The homey comfort he'd felt ever since stepping foot in the school was gone, replaced by the alien tension that a tourist might feel on vacation.

Harry looked at Ernie, and found that the other boy's expression spoke of a similar mind. Nose bridge creased in unknowing and cautious worry. It was encouraging to know he wasn't the only one feeling wary, and that wariness was enough to prepare them for what they found inside the room.

As the Grey Lady told them, the magical mirror they were looking for was dead center in the room. It was the only thing there, and the barren room seemed all the larger in its emptiness. Looking down, Harry saw small puffs of dust float up with every one of his footsteps before drifting lazily back to the floor. Next to him, Ernie sneezed.

"Blimey, you'd think they'd keep the place clean," the other boy said, a hand over his nose.

"Something tells me we aren't supposed to be here," Harry said, voice low, and left unsaid was his suspicion that _no one_ was supposed to be there. That the mirror had been taken to such an extreme location, as if forgotten in some dusty corner of the attic, precisely so that it might not be found.

Ernie didn't pick up on that fear, and walked forward, hand still covering his nose and mouth. His voice sounded slightly muffled. "Well, duh. It's past curfew."

Harry sighed, but followed his friend closer to the mirror in silence. Soon enough, they both stood before it, their reflections staring back at them. The mirror was tall, at least twice as tall as either boy, with a thick and ornate frame in the shape of an oval doorway. On top, crowning the glass, were familiar letters carved into unfamiliar words:

 _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi._

"Any idea what that's supposed to mean?" Ernie asked him, and Harry had to shake his head. After a moment of silent pondering, Ernie shrugged. "Well, I don't see anything else. Maybe the Grey Lady was right. It's just a regular ol' mirror."

Harry said nothing, instead walking closer to inspect the words. He went around, to see if there was anything on the mirror's other side, and when he did, he heard Ernie gasp behind him.

"Harry! Come look!"

Harry strode back next to Ernie, whose face had taken up a sort of glow, eyes wide and shining. But as soon as he got close, Ernie's face dropped once more, twisting in confusion. Harry looked back at their reflections, and found them as ordinary as he had before. He turned to Ernie.

"What did you see?" he said, whispering. It still felt like they were sneaking by someone, and his voice lowered itself with little control on his part.

"I thought I saw…" Ernie paused, eyes narrowing. He glanced at Harry. "Walk over there for a second," he said, hand waving over to the side.

Harry cocked his head. "What did—"

"Just do it!"

Harry backed away from his friend, and Ernie himself kept his eyes straight on the mirror. When he was far enough, Harry saw Ernie's face light up again, the same look as before. Like he'd just found a chest full of gold, its glitter transferring over to his cheeks like some sort of virus.

"What is it?" Harry asked, a little louder.

Ernie's eyes were too shiny. Harry leaned his head in close, trying to see, and was shocked to discover that the gleam came from the beginnings of tears. "It's… It's my dad," Ernie said, voice breaking.

Harry blinked. "Your dad?"

"My dad… He's _here_." Ernie was smiling, but his lips wobbled. His breath hitched, and suddenly, he seemed to break out of some stupor. His hand came up and wiped hurriedly at his eyes. "He's just here. Or, his reflection. I dunno. Maybe… Maybe the mirror only works one person at a time?"

Harry stared at Ernie, eyebrows drawn in, his mind warring with itself. Eventually, he decided to pretend he hadn't seen anything. "I guess that makes sense," he said, taking a step forward. "Mind if I have a look?"

"Sure," Ernie said, walking over to him.

They passed each other quietly, only dusty footsteps sounding out in the echoing room. To Harry it seemed like Ernie tried his hardest to not meet eyes.

Now, Harry stood in front of the mirror. He saw himself, and at first, he was disappointed. There seemed to be nothing different, either about his reflection or what surrounded it. There was only him, Harry, alone, the same as always. He raised a hand, saw his reflection do the same. He turned his head. Nothing was changing.

He was about to say something, maybe a complaint, maybe a simple unanswerable question, but then he caught his own eyes. Bright green, the same as his own, but… different. On the surface they looked exactly the same, but _something_ about them was unlike the ones he knew he had. There was an undefinable depth there, and as soon as he realized this, Harry had the strange sensation that he was being watched.

But the person watching him was himself. His reflection. It was both him and not him, a Harry he didn't know. A Harry exactly the same as the one he had looked at in the mirror every day of his life while brushing his teeth, or trying in vain to flatten his wildly curled hair, or straightening his glasses, every fleck of skin, every pore, every miniscule twitch, it was him. But something about those eyes…

They looked at him with width. It was the only way Harry could explain the goosebumps their look gave him. Width, as if those eyes were seeing something far larger than what was there. Eyes that made the what they looked at larger just by looking. Harry had a feeling that he'd seen eyes like those before…

"Harry!"

He whirled around. Ernie had snapped closer to him, face stricken with terror, and when Harry followed the other boy's gaze, his own face matched. There was a tall figure silhouetted against the door, far taller than any human being Harry had seen save Hagrid. But where the half-giant was thick and wide, this shadow was long, its head pointed.

 _We're caught_ , he thought, mind buzzing. _We're caught._

The terror only increased when, with a simple _lumos_ , the figure revealed itself to be Albus Dumbledore himself.

"My, this is a surprise," the old man said, his long and cascading beard waving like silk with every word. "Two stray badgers running loose past their bedtimes."

"Headmaster…" Ernie seemed, for the first time since Harry had met him, completely lost for words. "We… We…"

"Were only lost," Dumbledore said. He tutted, shaking his head gravely. "Of course, two first years such as yourselves couldn't be faulted for your incomplete layout of the castle. And with so few present, it is only natural that you couldn't find an older student to show you the way." His eyes twinkled at their gob smacked expressions, the wrinkles that lined them crinkling in delight. "I do hope my analysis is correct?"

Surprised as they were, neither Harry nor Ernie were foolish enough to miss out on such a carefully thrown life draft while they flailed in such deep water. They nodded their heads in unison.

"That's right, Headmaster," Ernie said, his voice trembling despite the small smile that made its way to his face. "That's exactly right."

Dumbledore's gaze fell to the mirror they stood next to. "It seems you two have found something rather special," he said, walking closer. The two boys stepped back, as if there were some invisible barrier that surrounded the wizened wizard, one which didn't force them away, but inspired them to make way of their own accord like parting waves. "The Mirror of Erised. I dare say you must have realized its purpose by now."

Harry frowned, but Ernie perked up, back straightening. "It shows you something you really want, right?" the other boy said.

Dumbledore nodded, standing in front of the mirror. He looked up at the carved words, and recited them as they were meant to be recited. " _I show not your face, but your heart's desire_ ," he said. His look then came down to the mirror itself, and he seemed to stare at his own reflection. Harry knew now that the old man was likely staring at something else. "Just so, Mr. Macmillan. Just so. Its magic seeps into your most private soul, extracting the true wants within. Many have found it quite useful throughout the years, taking in its wisdom with fresh eyes."

"What's the point?" Ernie said, a stinging resentment in his words. It was so unfounded in him that Harry had a momentary struggle placing the voice to the person he'd known for months. "If you already know, where's the use in something like that…"

His voice trailed off. Dumbledore stared at the mirror for a moment longer, then turned his head to see the two boys.

"Where _isn't_ the use?" Dumbledore said. "You'll find, Mr. Macmillan, that most people have not the slightest idea as to what they truly want."

His eyes, Harry thought, his breath shaky. His eyes were like his own. Like the _other_ him. Eyes that saw a wider world.

And it suddenly came to Harry that Dumbledore wasn't alone in having them. Professor Sprout, for all her strangeness, had a similar look. In fact, so did Ernie, though the boy only looked that way on certain occasions—that night, for one, when they'd been on the hunt for the mirror, and even during their trip into the forest on the second week of classes. Professor McGonagall, strict and direct, Professor Flitwick, so enthusiastic in his lectures. Now that he thought about it, Ollivander the wandmaker, as unusual as he was passionate, held those eyes. As did Hagrid, who might be confused for dull to anyone who didn't talk with him about magical creatures.

And Susan. In fact, she'd been the first person whom Harry had noticed such a trait in.

Whatever it was, it wasn't unheard of. Rare, yes, certainly in the hands of few people, but not so rare that it was impossible to attain. And all those that Harry had noticed such sight in were fantastic people. People Harry couldn't help but respect. What was this? What gave someone such eyes?

 _I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…_

Without even meaning to, Harry's hand had reached inside his pocket and touched his wand. The Sorting Hat's voice boomed in his head, echoing in his ears.

 _Wasted, that's what you'll be, in Slytherin and the rest._

 _Wasted…_

 _Wasted…_

 _Wasted, wasted, wasted…_

"Mr. Potter."

Harry snapped back to Dumbledore. The old man looked at him with, eyes that bore into his heart. "Are you quite alright?" Next to him, Ernie gave Harry a worried look.

Gulping, Harry nodded. "Just thinking," he managed to breathe out. After a second's pause, feeling the forest, the swirling words all together, he asked, "Headmaster, can I ask… What do you see in the mirror?"

Dumbledore fixed him with something resembling surprise, though his wrinkled face stayed as nonchalant as possible. It reminded Harry of Justin, who's poker face carried him to victory at cards all on its own. Then, the old man smiled.

"Oh, only myself, holding a pair of thick, woolen socks. Nothing very exciting, as it turns out."

Harry's first thought was that the old man was lying. He was almost sure. It was too ridiculous. Why would anyone's deepest desire be something as mundane as a pair of socks?

But something nagged at him. What was seeing wide, if not finding such value in something so small? Seeing the whole world in a mote of dust?

Dumbledore ordered them to bed, seemingly forgetting that they were supposed to be lost. He told them that the Mirror of Erised was to be moved. Far too dangerous to keep it somewhere any student could stumble into it. Many had gotten forever lost in their own fantasies, Dumbledore had said, sounding grim.

The two Hufflepuff boys made it back home easily enough, taking only a few minutes to run through the halls and down the stairs into their common room. Ernie had kept praising Dumbledore, calling him the coolest old man he'd known in hushed shouts. They got in bed and said goodnight.

Later, with Ernie's soft snoring in his ears, Harry turned his head to look out the window. It was a charmed window, showing the night sky even from their basement dwellings. The sky in it was clear and dotted with stars. Harry trailed the wings of the Milky Way, surfing the faraway clouds of cosmic dust, and as his eyelids grew heavy, he wished that he could one day find such size in a pair of woolen socks.

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